


Fright Night

by CelestialVoid



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Friday the 13th: The Game (Video Game), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Friday the 13th, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Stiles, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Halloween, Hurt, Hurt Peter Hale, Hurt/Comfort, Just A Touch of Mystery, Kidnapped Cora, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles to the rescue!, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12573184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: The pack went down to a lake-side camp site to spend some time together, but their celebrations are cut short when an intruder in a mask steps out of the shadows.





	1. Prologue

Stiles stood out on the end of the pier that hovered above the murky water of the stream that cut through the land, his eyes shut as he listened to the rhythmic pattern of the waves lapping at the wooden support beams.

He didn’t need his to open his eyes to see the scene before him: the beautiful view he had spent the last few hours looking at had a clear sky that was streaked with shades of orange, pink and red as the sun had sunk beneath the trees and decorated by the thinnest whips of soft white clouds. The surface of the water was scintillating as it caught the reflection of the stars in the sky, a mirror of the heavens. The greens and yellows of the trees on the embankments that surrounded the river had lost their colour when night settled, the beautiful mess of scattered pines, birch trees, and quaking aspen now looking like a nightmarish twisted mess of limbs and spindly fingers.

The large lodge behind him was one of many scattered across the camp grounds, the dark wood logs of the walls blending into the surroundings. It was settled among a bald patch in the trees, the clearing decorated by a camp fire and picnic tables. A small garden patch running along the front of the balcony that bordered the house was full of scattered bushes and low-lying plants.

It was exactly what they all wanted: an escape from everything they’d been through, from Beacon Hills; even if it was only for the weekend.

The sun had set hours ago, settling the campsite into darkness.

The others had lit a campfire back at the lodge, the inviting sound of the crackling flames and the soft murmur of voices and laughter carried his way on the breeze. The soft wind sent and icy shiver down his spine, making him want nothing more than to join the others by the warm glow of the campfire; but he didn’t want to join the party. The last thing he wanted right now was a bunch of drunken teenagers making passive-aggressive remarks.

He heard footsteps thud against the wooden boards of the pier as someone walked up behind him.

Stiles opened his eyes and turned around, looking at the dark figure that moved towards him.

His black leather jacket blended in with the shadows of the night as he sauntered across the pier towards Stiles. He was a young man—the eldest of them all—but his stern features and handsome looks made him look a good few years older than he actually was. His tousled hair was dark and thick and his jaw was darkened by soft whiskers. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, narrowed on him as the aventurine irises caught the light and shifted from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

“Hey,” Derek said, his voice quiet as he stepped over to Stiles’ side. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “I’m fine.”

“Then why are you hiding out here instead of joining in with the others?” Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged. “I hate parties. It’s a social anxiety thing.”

A small smile quirked Derek’s lips. “I know how you feel. I’d much rather stand out here with you than listen to that lot, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave them alone with Peter; someone’s bound to start a fight.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at that remark.

Derek turned to look at the teen. “The marshmallows are about to come out if you want to come back to camp.”

Stiles took one last look out across the shimmering surface of the lake.

“Yeah,” he muttered, turning and following Derek back to the camp.

They made their way over to the picnic area where the other teens were gathered around the fire, huddling in couples and groups.

Scott sat with his arm slung over Allison’s shoulder, Allison leant against Scott’s side but was turned slightly and immersed in a conversation with Lydia. Isaac sat on Scott’s other side, casting glances across the campfire to where the golden glow of the flames lit Cora’s face. Cora sat next to her uncle, chatting quietly with him while Boyd and Erica beside her.

Stiles found a free seat between Lydia and Peter and sat down, the blazing heat of the fire prickling his skin.

“So, there’s this story, that years ago a kid came here, Jason Voorhees, was part of a summer camp and when the counsellors’ backs were turned, he went swimming and drowned,” he heard Lydia say. “His mother went berserk and attacked the camp counsellors, but they fought back and killed her.”

“Okay, and?” Allison prompted.

“ _And_ when the police came to lock down the crime scene the mother’s body was missing. There was blood and an axe, but no body. A dive team searched the lake and they couldn’t find Jason either.”

“Are you suggesting that they’re alive?” Isaac asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“The mother’s definitely dead, but it’s rumoured that Jason didn’t die,” Lydia explained. “The legend is that Jason cannot die, and so he’s spent the last few decades searching these woods and hunting down campers.”

“If that’s the best ghost story you can come up with, it sucks,” Allison said light-heartedly.

Stiles ignored them and watched as Derek began to rifle through the food they had brought out with them.

“Peter,” Derek called without looking up. “Where are the marshmallows?”

“Inside,” Peter answered. “I’ll go get them.”

The man begrudgingly rose to his feet and made his way around the campfire before prancing up the small fleet of stairs and onto the balcony. He made his way inside and emerged a minute later with a large packet of marshmallows in his hand.

He strutted back over to the group, his eyes focused on something on the plastic wrapper as he sauntered down the stairs and stopped by his nephew’s side.

There was a rush of air and a blood-curdling sound of cracking bone and slick blood as Peter’s feet fell still and his body jerked back. His eyes flew open wide as the packet of marshmallows fell from his hand. He lowered his gaze to the axe that was stuck in his chest.

Stiles felt his blood run cold, his eyes glued on the streams of blood that seeped into the front of Peter’s shirt. He hears Cora scream and instinctively reached out to hold her, but Boyd was closer than Stiles was. He saw her collapse in Boyd’s arms.

Peter’s body shuddered, his breathing broken as he looked up at the figure that emerged from the shadows.

All eyes turned to the man who sauntered out of the trees, his hollow eyes staring from beneath his faded hockey mask as his cold glare focused on Peter.

Peter snarled, his fangs dropping and his eyes glowing blue as he pulled the axe from his chest and hurled it back at the masked man.

The axe hit the man in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He tore his eyes away from Peter for a moment, looking down at the axe and tilting his head curiously. He grabbed the hilt and pulled it from his shoulder as if he were pulling it from a tree; unaffected by the gaping wound in his arm as he turned his fierce glare back to Peter, the burning rage intensified.

Derek swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear as he looked at the others and shouted, “Run!”


	2. Stiles

Stiles scrambled to his feet.

He grabbed Lydia’s arm and pulled her upright.  He ushered her behind him and waited until everyone around the campfire was on their feet before getting ready to run.  But he hesitated.

He locked eyes with Derek, a glimmer of fear swirling in his honey-brown eyes as he watched the young man catch his uncle.

He glanced up, meeting Stiles’ gaze.

“Run!”

Stiles nodded numbly, his legs moving beneath him as he pedalled backwards.

He turned to look at the masked man. The man’s cold glare was focused on him; a predator with prey in his sights.

Stiles flailed about, stumbling backwards. His feet hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself, leaping to his feet and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

There was a rush of air and a loud thud as the axeblade slammed into the tree trunk next to Stiles’ face.

He didn’t have time to slow down, he didn’t have time to hesitate.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the campfire.

Ahead of him he could see a small group of silhouettes.

He sprinted over to their side.

“What the fuck is going on?” Erica gasped, struggling to steady her breath.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder. He could hear the man following them, his footfalls breaking sticks as he trudged through the undergrowth.

“Run for a cabin,” Stiles instructed, his eyes darting between Erica, Boyd, and Cora’s terrified expressions. “Get inside, lock the doors, keep a window open if you have to run. Stay low and stay quiet.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Boyd asked.

“This guy nearly took down Peter and he took an axe to his shoulder as if it were nothing,” Stiles panted. “If we call the police, we’re just adding more targets for him.”

“So we’re sitting ducks?” Erica hissed.

“No,” Stiles answered, frantically glancing over his shoulder at the twisted shadows of the trees. “Search the cabins. There’s bound to be contraband and emergency equipment: baseball bats, flare guns, pocket knives; hell, grab a tree branch and use that. Arm yourselves but don’t fight unless you have to.”

The three of them nodded frantically.

A stick broke behind them

Stiles’ heart lurched into his throat.

“Run,” Stiles whispered. “Get to a cabin, lock it down and hide.”

The girls nodded and made a start for the nearby track that would lead to one of the other cabins. Boyd hesitated.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to buy you time,” Stiles answered. He gently patted Boyd’s shoulder. “Now go.”

Boyd’s face twisted with pain as he forced himself to turn and run.

Stiles watched for a moment as the three of them ran down the path. He turned and looked at the shadows of the surrounding trees, watching as they moulded into the shape of the man marching towards him.

Stiles kicked up his heels and ran into the trees.

The sounds drained away, disappearing behind him as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

He ran until the muscles in his legs burnt and his joints ached. He stumbled as he sprinted through the undergrowth.

He slowed, running on the spot as he turned about to check whether he was being followed or under threat. He began to settle, setting his feet down on the ground and slumping back against the thick trunk of a nearby tree as he tried to catch his breath.

He looked around, stilling as he listened to the sounds of the night; nothing.

He had lost him.

Through the trees, he spied the soft glow of cabin lights. He began to creep towards them, trying to stay quiet as he shuffled through the undergrowth. He watched his foot falls, careful not to break twigs or lose his footing.

He pressed his black against the trunk of a tree, peering around and searching the clearing for any sign of the masked man; nothing.

He let his shaky breath fall past his lips as he stepped out into the small clearing and over to the cabin. He crept up onto the small balcony, the withered wooden floorboards groaning in protest beneath his steps.

Stiles’ heart lurched at the shriek of the old wood, lurching into his throat as he hurried towards the door. He grabbed the doorhandle with shaking hands and threw the door open. He charged inside the cabin and slammed the door shut behind himself. He slid the deadlock into place, grabbed the wooden bar that was screwed into the doorframe and pulled it down to barricade the door.

He stumbled back slightly, his shoulders heaving with shallow breaths as he stared at the faded red paint that seeped into the grains of the wood.

He heaved in deep breaths, feeling his chest grown tight and his eyes till with tears.

He sank to his knees and curled up into a ball, trying to steady his breathing and subdue the panic attack before it became worse.

He blinked back the welling tears that streaked his vision and looked up at the door before him, trying to focus on something small.

He watched as the shadows shifted across the painted door, a large figure looming over him.

His eyes flew open wide and his breath caught in his throat as he watched the morphing darkness take shape.

His heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold in his veins, his body trembling as he slowly turned around.

He wanted to scream, but he made no sound; his lungs were engulfed with fire as air played across his lips, evading him.

His legs pedalled beneath him as he stumbled backwards. His body hit the solid, unyielding wood of the locked door.

The dark silhouette loomed over him, arm raised with a weapon in their grasp.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, his deafening heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Everything fell silent.

From somewhere in the darkness beyond his eyes, he heard a familiar voice call his name.

“Stiles?”


	3. Derek

Derek caught Peter before he collapsed.

He slung Peter’s arm over his shoulders and hoisted the man upright on his feet.

He glanced up, meeting Stiles’ gaze.

“Run!” he shouted again.

Stiles nodded numbly, turned and ran.

Derek dragged Peter with him as he ran along the front of the cabin and into the woods beyond.

Peter stumbled and fell against Derek as the young man tried to get him to safety.

Derek glanced over his shoulder, watching as the masked man trudged away from the campfire and followed the fleeing teenagers.

His heart ached, his instinct screaming at him to defend them, but Peter’s weak moan drew his attention back to the man.

He looked down at the gaping wound in his chest. The blood was seeping into the front of his shirt and beneath the smears of crimson Derek could see the fractured pieces of his uncle’s sternum. The ivory bone was slowly stitching itself together, but Peter’s healing was slowed by the seriousness of the wound.

“We have to get you to shelter,” Derek said quietly, dragging the man through the dense trees.

He helped Peter climb over fallen logs and dragged him through the undergrowth. They hobbled towards one of the cabins on the campsite, stumbling up onto the balcony and shoving the door open. He pulled Peter’s arm over his shoulder and lifted his weight up onto his feet.

He carried Peter inside, carefully lying him down on the couch before shutting the door and searching the cabin for a First Aid kit. He rifled through the kitchen cupboards until he found the small metal box full of cotton bandaged, medical tape, scissors and various other medical supplies.

He returned to his uncle’s side, using the scissors to cut open the front of the man’s V-neck.

“This shirt is ruined,” Peter whined, his voice dry and tense as he fought off the pain.

“You can buy another one,” Derek said sharply, his attention focused on the bleeding wound in his uncle’s chest.

He cleaned away the streams of blood that coursed the man’s chest, grabbed a gauze dressing and pressed it to his uncle’s chest. He taped down the corners and reached for the coils of cotton bandages. His nimble fingers moved across the man’s bare chest, making quick work of winding bandages around his ribs and taping the ends down.

“That ought to do for now,” Derek said, sitting back on his heels and looking at wads of bandages that covered the man’s face.

Peter glanced down at his ribs. A trail of black blood trickled from the open gash, seeping into the stitched fibres of the bandages. He stared down at himself, slightly distanced from himself, knowing that beneath the layers of cotton and gauze, layers of skin were stitching back together and closing the open gash.

“I’m going to look around, stay here,” Derek instructed.

“It’s not like I can move far,” Peter drolled sarcastically.

Derek rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. He began to search the cabin, rifling through desk drawers and cupboards. He pulled open a small drawer and found a collection of contraband and camp equipment: pocket knives, maps and a walkie-talkie. He slid the knife into his pocket and picked up the walkie-talkie.

He turned it on and flicked through the channels until he heard a familiar voice.

“Hello? Anyone out there?”

Derek pushed down the button. “Lydia?”

“Derek? Oh thank god,” Lydia replied, her voice full of relief. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek answered. He glanced over his shoulder at the man that was sprawled out across the couch; his skin flushed and sweaty and the bandages around his chest soaked through with blood. “Peter’s not looking so good. Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” Lydia said. “Allison and I are in a cabin to the East; Birch Ridge.”

“Is Cora with you?” Derek asked, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

“No,” Lydia answered honestly. “The last I saw of her, she was with Boyd and Erica. I’m sorry, Derek, we have no idea where the others are.”

“We’ll find them,” Derek said, a hint of determination and reassurance in his voice. “Just stay safe.”

There was a loud thump and Derek’s eyes flew up.

He saw the door slam shut and the wooden bar fall down into place.

“I’ve got to go,” he said quietly, turning down the volume on the walkie-talkie and clipping it onto the belt.

His heart beat hard against his ribs as he crept down the small hallway. He set one foot in front of the other, stalking forward like a cautious predator.

He reached out for the baseball bat that sat on one of the nearby shelves, coiling his fingers around the grip. He tightened his grip, his knuckles pressing against the taut skin of his hand.

He rounded the couch and stepped over to the door.

He raised the bat above his head and froze.

The teen scrambled about by the door, his legs kicking out against the floorboards as he pushed himself back against the door and shut his eyes.

Derek lowered his arm, his gut lurching with guilt as he looked down at the teen’s terrified expression.

“Stiles?”

The teen slowly blinked open his eyes, looking up at Derek. He opened his mouth to say something, but the only thing that fell past his trembling lips was a broken stutter. His hands were trembling and his body shuddered breathlessly. His shoulders heaved up and down but his breathing was shallow.

Derek could hear his racing heartbeat, the thundering calamity that slammed into Stiles’ chest.

Stiles’ eyes were glistening with tears as he hunched over himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling up in a ball.

Derek knelt down before the teen, setting down the bat and craning his neck to look him in they eye. He tried to keep his voice level and soft as he called the boy’s name again, “Stiles.”

The boy didn’t react.

“Stiles, is this a panic attack?” he asked.

Stiles nodded.

 “I… I…” Stiles pressed the palms of his hands against his forehead. He grabbed at fistfuls of his unkempt hair. He tugged at the stands of soft locks, his scalp stinging but not matching the growing burning agony in his chest. It was as if he had inhaled matchsticks and petrol and this was the flame that set it all alight.

He was desperate to draw air but his lungs failed him. It was becoming impossible for him to breathe. His broken sobs fell from trembling lips as he tried to move his mouth and form words.

His body wavered on the unsteadily.

“Lean forward,” Derek said softly, reaching out to steady the boy. He guided Stiles, gently urging him to kneel and hunch over.

He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead to the wooden floorboard.

Derek stayed by his side, gently rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

“Breathe out as much as you can,” Derek instructed. “Then take one deep breath in.”

Stiles shook his head.

Derek heard his tears thump against the floor. He watched them fall, leaving darkened pools as they stole the warmth from Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles shivered as a cold sweat rolled over him, seeping into every pore of his skin and chilling him to the core.

“C-Can’t,” he stuttered. His voice caught in the back of his throat.

“We’re okay,” Derek said softly, reassuringly. “Stiles, we’re okay. Just breathe.”

Stiles winced.

“Hold your breath,” Derek instructed.

Stiles did as he was told, his face contorted in pain as his burning agony flooded his body.

Derek waited, every second dragging until he began to fear that Stiles would pass out before he drew breath.

Then, Stiles opened his mouth, gasping as air flooded back into his lungs. He drew in a few deep breaths before his breathing began to steady.

“There you go,” Derek said softly, gently patting his back. “You’re okay.”

Stiles looked up at him, his whiskey-brown eyes catching the light as he looked deep into Derek’s eyes. His lips trembled as he tried to say something, but the first words that fell past his lips were, “Cora is safe. She’s with Boyd and Erica.”

Derek let out a heavy sigh of relief and nodded. He rose to his feet and held his hand out for Stiles.

Stiles took it and let Derek help him to his feet.

Derek picked up the baseball bat and offered it to Stiles. “I think you’d be better off with this.”

Stiles smiled thankfully and took it. His eyes drifted to the couch.

“He’s fine,” Derek said, stepping around the couch. “He’s just taking his sweet time healing.”

Peter glared weakly at his nephew. He gritted his teeth and growled, “How about I put an axe in your chest and see how long it takes you to heal?”

Derek threw a vicious glare his uncle’s way.

“I tried to lure him away from the others so they had time to run and hide, but I lost him,” Stiles said, interrupting them. “We need a plan. We need to think of some way to get out of here.”

“Why don’t we just call the police?” Derek asked.

“We can’t call the police; I don’t think the guy in the mask cares who he kills, calling the police is only going to get more people killed,” Stiles explained. “So, for now, we’re in this alone.”

“I don’t think that son of a bitch is human,” Peter rasped, his hazel eyes unfocused as he looked at Stiles and Derek. “He took an axe hit without flinching.”

“So, he’s a werewolf?” Stiles proposed.

Peter shook his head weakly.

“A berserker?” Derek offered.

“Possibly,” Peter answered. “But whatever he—or it—is, it’s going to take a lot to take him down.”

Derek was about to push him for more information when a weak voice came over the walkie-talkie. “Hello? Please… Someone answer.”

Derek pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and passed it to Stiles, turning his attention to the unsearched drawers of the cabin as he rummaged for another one.

“Erica?” Stiles answered. “Are you alright?”

He heard her quiet sob. “The psycho found us. Boyd got hit; he’s not waking up.”

“Erica, where are you?” Stiles asked, rummaging through a nearby desk for a map.

“Camp Hillbrook,” Erica rasped.

Stiles found it on the map, following the curved lines of the hiking trails as he planned the fastest way to get to her. “Okay, Erica, I need you to find something to defend yourself with. I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said reassuringly as he dug through the drawers and pocketed switchblades, the map and other things that might come in handy. “I’m on my way.”

“He took her…” Erica rasped.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. He glanced across the room to where Derek stood, his clear eyes focused on Stiles.

“He took her,” Erica repeated. “He took Cora.”


	4. Erica

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Erica asked, looking back over her shoulder down the track to where they had last seen Stiles; the masked man chasing after him.

“He’ll be okay,” Boyd said, reassuring himself more than Erica. “Let’s just find somewhere to hide.”

They followed the path, walking slowly and cautiously through the eerily quiet darkness until they found a clearing. They crossed the open space and made their way around the front of the long cabin.

Boyd ushered the girls inside, his eyes focused on the shifting shadows among the tree line. HIs heart spiked as the rolling wind rustled the trees making everything move. He hurried inside, slid the lock into place with a loud click and pulled the barricading bar down into place.

He turned around and saw Cora hurrying down the long hall to the other door. She slid the bar into place across the door and began to search the far rooms.

Erica was searching through the small cabinets and desks that were pushed back against the walls.

Boyd followed suit, searching the large bookshelf nearby.

He picked up an old iron wrench and tightened his hand around it, testing the weight as it rested in the palm of his hand.

“Boyd,” Erica whispered.

His heart skipped a beat when he heard the tension in her voice. He turned around and saw her standing by the window, her eyes wide as she stared out into the darkness.

Boyd swallowed hard and forced himself to ask, “What is it?”

“He’s here.”

The blood ran cold in his veins.

“Get away from the window,” Boyd instructed, stepping forward and reaching out for her. He turned and looked down the hallway. “Cora,” he called out to her. “Hide.”

There was a loud crack.

Boyd spun around to look at the door.

The blood-soaked blade of an axe splintered the wood, staining the gain as it began to fracture.

Boyd ushered Erica behind himself, using a body as a shield as he watched the man swing again.

Chunks of the door broke away, the blade digging into the barricade.

“Boyd,” Erica whimpered, unable to hide the fear that flooded her body.

“It’s okay,” Boyd lied, his voice a broken whisper as he tried to reassure her. He tightened his grip on the rusty wrench. “We’re going to be okay. Just stay behind me.”

The door shattered, the light from the porch illuminating the figure of the man who stood in the doorway.

The masked man sauntered inside.

Boyd lunged forward and swung the wrench, the heavy iron slamming into the side of the man’s head.

The masked man froze, his head knocked aside by the force. He slowly turned, his cold glare focused on Boyd.

He threw his axe down, the blade wedging itself in the wooden floor.

He took a step forward and slammed his hand into Boyd’s throat, hoisting the teen off his feet.

Boyd dropped his wrench. He flailed about, his jagged claws scratching at the man’s arms as he kicked at the masked man’s gut, but the man didn’t flinch.

Boyd choked on his breath.

The man tightened his grip on Boyd and swung his arm, hurling the boy across the room.

Boyd’s body hit the wall with a gut-wrenching crack, falling to the floor; limp and unmoving,

“Boyd!” Erica cried, running to his side.

He was out cold, blood streaming across his forehead and his chest moving with frail breaths.

Erica heard the man’s heavy footsteps hit the floor, drawing closer and closer. She heard him pull the axe free of the floor, dragging the tip of the blade across the wooden boards like nails down a chalk board.

She froze, her eyes fixed on Boyd’s still body as the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. She felt him drawing closer and closer.

She saw the shadows shift around her, a blanket of cold washing over her. Icy shivers clawed at her spine as she watched the shadows morph into the shape of the man, his hand raised and his axe ready.

“Stop!”

The piercing scream shattered her frozen body. Erica spun around and saw Cora standing by the corner of the hallway.

The masked man froze. He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with a strange sense of recognition. He began to move towards her.

“No,” Erica rasped.

Her limbs felt like lead caught in sludge as she struggled to rise to her feet.

Cora was frozen in fear as the masked man reached out, gently brushing the fingers of his gloves across her cheek.

“Leave her alone,” Erica growled, staggering to her feet and charging at the man.

The masked man swung around, the back of his hand colliding with Erica’s cheek and flinging her across the room.

She hit the wall with a painful thump, the air knocked from her lungs.

Bursts of light and colours filled her vision as she dropped down to the floor.

Among the blinding light, she saw the silhouette of the man stalk towards her, his axe tight in his hold.

“No!” Cora screamed.

The man froze. He turned to look at her.

Erica’s eyes felt heavy, her head pounding as the world began to spin. Darkness crept in around the fringe of her vision.

“No,” she rasped, fighting back unconsciousness as she watched the man walk over to Cora’s side.

She saw him grab her arm, pulling her towards the door.

Cora didn’t fight; she stumbled behind him, casting a frantic gaze at Erica.

“No,” Erica whimpered.

She couldn’t fight it.

The darkness consumed her and she collapsed to the floor.

 

 

Erica slowly blinked her eyes open, her vision focusing on the rough grooves embedded in the wooden floorboards.

She rose onto her hands and knees, her head pounding and her vision failing her slightly as she crawled over to Boyd’s side.

She gently shook him, but he didn’t stir.

She dug into her back pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie she had scavenged earlier. She pushed down on the button and weakly said, “Hello? Please… Someone answer.”

After a second, she got a reply; a familiar voice.

“Erica?” Stiles answered. “Are you alright?”

She tried to stifle her sob as she dragged herself upright and slouched back against the wall, her eyes focused on the open doorway. “The psycho found us. Boyd got hit; he’s not waking up.”

“Erica, where are you?” Stiles asked.

Erica tried to think back to the wooden sign they had passed when they ran down the trail. She strung together the fragmented memory of the carved letters until they made a name.

“Camp Hillbrook,” Erica rasped.

There was another beat of silence.

She felt her head sag forward, darkness filling her vision.

“Okay, Erica, I need you to find something to defend yourself with,” she heard Stiles say, his voice drawing her back to reality. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said reassuringly. “I’m on my way.”

“He took her…” Erica rasped.

There was a beat of silence.

Erica drew in a deep breath.

“He took her,” Erica repeated. “He took Cora.”

She didn’t hear what they said next; her head lulled to the side and the world slipped away from her.

 

 

“Erica?”

She struggled to blink her eyes open.

“Erica? Can you hear me?”

She looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes, full of worry as they looked down at her.

She let out a weak moan.

“Erica?”

“My head hurts,” she whispered.

“Probably because you have one hell of a concussion,” Stiles said softly. He turned to look at Derek. “She can’t walk, not like this.”

“I can’t carry both of them,” Derek replied. “And you need to keep your hands free to defend us if he comes back.”

“We can’t leave her here,” stiles objected. “And if he’s on his way back, we won’t have the time to make two trips.”

“I’ll carry Boyd.” The voice came from down the hall.

Derek and Stiles spun around.

Peter staggered around the corner, his chest clod in blood-soaked bandages and his face composed.

“You’re hurt,” Derek pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Peter said dismissively, waving a hand. “Now stop fussing.” Under his breath, he added, “You’re just like your mother.”

Peter made his way over to Boyd’s side, pulling his limp arms over his shoulder.

Derek helped him lift Boyd onto his back before turning his attention to Erica. He cradled Erica’s head into his shoulder and slid one arm around her shoulders, the other hand under her legs. He lifted her into his arms.

She struggled to keep her eyes open as he carried her out into the cool air of the night.

They made their way down the snaking path that wove its way through the trees.

The toe of Stiles’ boot struck a thick tree root stuck out from the ground. He fell forward, hitting the ground with a painful thud as he landed among the cushion of damp autumn leaves, piles of rotting detritus which littered the forest floor.

He winched, his head aching as he lifted his gaze and looked about the darkness, slimy, wet leaves sticking to his cheek as he turned his eyes towards the darkness.

The usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Something was wrong.

He braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. He slowly turned in circles, surveying his surroundings. Fallen branches snagged at his bare ankles, scratching at the pale skin and drawing small droplets of blood. The extended limbs reached for him like the hands of the damned, ready to drag him down into the inky black abyss.

“Stiles?” Derek asked softly.

Stiles held up his hand, silencing Derek.

There was a rustle in the bushes in front of him. Clumps of leaves and low hanging branches crackling, shaking and bowing as a big black shadow slinked into the open, broad feet thumping the ground.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, fear flooding his veins as a cold rush of adrenaline bled into his veins. His eyes were focused on the dark figure as he breathed, “Run.”

Derek took a step back and Stiles tightened his hold on the baseball bat.

Peter and Derek lingered by the edge of the tack, glancing from Stiles to the darkness of the woods.

The masked man drew nearer.

Stiles choked up on the bat and swung, the solid oak slamming into the side of the man’s face.

Stiles looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Run!”

Derek and Peter sprinted into the shadows, leaving Stiles to face the masked man.

Stiles turned and ran in the other direction, vaulting over a fallen log and sprinting into the dense woods.

He sprinted through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, large rocks, broken branches and thick shrubs, his legs wheeling about beneath him as he struggled not to trip on the thick undergrowth.

He ran until his legs burnt and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He slowed, turning around to look back the way he had come.

There was no sign of the man.

He heaved in deep breaths, keeping his eyes focused on the shadows as he began to walk backwards.

The ground gave way beneath his feet and his fell.


	5. Cora

Cora’s eyes were full of heavy tears that she fought to hold back, her breath falling past her lips shakily as she stifled her sobs. Her hands were trembling, the heavy iron cuffs weighing down on her frail wrists. The heavy iron cuffs scratched at the pale skin of her arms as she tried to pull her hands free, but to no avail.

The masked man had left her there, alone, but not before he had collected a faded blue cardigan with holes rotted through the knitted wool and a faded brass locket. He had laid the locket around Cora’s neck and helped her slide her slender arms into the long sleeves of the jacket. Then he had found the iron shackles and secured her in place while he trudged out through the damp walls of the clay tunnels that led away from the den.

Cora looked about the confined space. An old mattress was pushed up against the far wall, mirroring the one she sat on now. It was riddled with patches of black and green mould, rusty orange springs jutting through the fabric.

The small hollow smelt of musk and decay, the wretched stench making Cora’s eyes tear up and her nose burn.

Strings of Christmas lights and small lamps with torn lampshades were set up around the den to light the space.

The far wall, above the other mattress, was decorated with a string of letters that seemed to be a collage from collected broken signs: J _A_ **S** O _N_.

Cora did everything she could to keep her gaze from wondering over to the rotting corpse that was laid back against a tree stump, the decapitated head resting atop the stump that was lined in half-melted candles to make what resembled shrine.

She heard a loud thump from down one of the long tunnels.

She craned her neck, trying to look around the edge of the tunnelling walls and peer into the dark shadows beyond.

She heard someone curse under their breath, a string of obscenities falling from his lips as he rose to her feet, dusted himself off and made his way down the hallway.

The figure stepped into the small space and Cora let out a sigh of relief.

“Stiles,” she whimpered.

He spun around and ran over to her side.

She couldn’t hold back the tears, the glistening droplets falling past her eyelashes and streaming her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” he whispered to her, dropping to his knees and pulling her into his arms. “You’re okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”

With one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket knife he had found earlier. He sat back slightly and pulled out the blade.

He took her hands in his and carefully slid the blade into the old lock.

The cuffs broke open and Cora shook her hands free, throwing her arms around Stiles.

He held her close, gently patting down her hair and whispering to her softly.

She leant back and looked up at him with tear-soaked eyes. “He’s going to be coming back soon.”

Stiles nodded.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Stiles whispered, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and walking her towards the opening of one of the tunnels.

They made their way into the darkness until the inky, abysmal shadows consumed them.

Stiles dug into his pocket and turned on his phone, using the light as a torch.

“Why don’t you call the others?” Cora asked.

“There’s no reception out here,” Stiles reminded her.

“Oh, right,” Cora muttered. “Whose idea was this stupid camping trip?”

“Not mine,” Stiles replied.

Cora glanced over her shoulder, bag at the dwindling light that came from the small room behind them.

It was still quiet.

The walls around them were damp and dark, thin rivulets of water trickling down through the rocks and the clay and making everything smell like rot and mould.

The ground rose slightly, and thy made their way up the incline and out into the cool air of the night.

Cora breathed out a sigh of relief, the cold night breeze stinging at the trails that streaked her cheeks.

She stayed by Stiles’ side looking around at the shadows that dwelled among the tree.

He picked up his radio and turned up the volume slightly.

“Hello?” he called.

“Stiles?” It was Allison. “Stiles, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Stiles answered. “I found Cora.”

“Are you two okay?” Allison asked.

“Shaken up, but okay,” Stiles replied. “I dropped my map and I have no idea where the nearest cabin is. We’re near the graveyard.”

“Hold on,” Allison said.

There was a minute of silence as Stiles reached out and gently tapped Cora’s arm, pointing towards the graveyard uphill. The two of them slowly made their way through the undergrowth.

“We’re nearby at Camp Stillwater,” Allison said. “We have the cabin locked down and we have a map. Lydia and I are on our way to the graveyard now, we’ll meet you there.”

“Okay,” Stiles replied. “We’ll see you in a minute.”

Stiles and Cora made their way up to the graveyard.

A chill ran up Cora’s spine, making her shudder.

Stiles looked at her, frowning in confusion. “What’s that?”

Cora glanced down at what had caught his attention: the old brass locket.

The glossy metal was dulled and has worn away in patches and was coloured by smears of blue and salmon pink, darkening by the dust and dirt that was caught in the grooves of the engraved floral pattern.

“I don’t know,” Cora answered. “That guy… Jason… gave it to me. I think it’s important to him.”

“Did you say Jason?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah. In the hollow there were two beds,” Cora explained. “The one on the other side of the room had letters above it: J, A, S, O, N; Jason.”

“Oh crap,” Stiles breathed.

“What?”

Stiles took a step back and nodded over his shoulder, gesturing for Cora to follow him. He made his way down along the rows of tombstones, stopping before a small grave with an old, ratty teddy bear propped up against it.

Cora turned to look at it, her eyes rolling across the engraved letters of the child’s grave: JASON VOORHEES.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“That ghost story Lydia was telling at the campfire,” Stiles uttered. “It just became real.”

“So, the dead kid’s alive,” Cora rasped. “That doesn’t explain why he took me. What does he want from me?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “But we’ll find out.”

There was a rustle in the bushed behind them

Stiles spun around, his baseball bat raised over his shoulder.

“Easy, tiger,” a familiar voice called from the shadows.

Allison stepped into the small clearing, lowering her bow and arrow. Lydia followed, hurrying over to Cora’s side and checking her for injuries.

“Where did you get that?” Stiles asked.

“There’s an archery range to the east,” Allison answered.

Stiles froze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

He slowly turned around, his eyes fixed on the shadows that lingered between the trees.

He gently ushered Cora towards Allison and Lydia.

“Go,” he instructed.

“Stiles?” Allison whispered.

“He’s here,” Stiles said, tightening his hold on his baseball bat. “Go.”

Lydia reached out and grabbed Cora’s hand, dragging her towards the nearby path.

Allison hesitated.

Stiles dragged his eyes away from the shadows and shot an urgent glare at her.

“Allison,” he shouted. “Go!”

She took a step back and turned away, following Lydia and Cora as they ran down the path that led to Stillwater Camp.

Stiles glanced back at the shadows, watching as they morphed into the shadows of the hulking man that trudged towards him, axe in hand.


	6. Stiles

Stiles tightened his grip on his bat.

His heart pounded against his chest. His breath howled in his hollow lungs as he glared at the approaching silhouette.

Jason emerged from the shadows of the tree line, stepping into the dull light cast by the streetlamp that hung over the cemetery. His eyes were fixed on Stiles, his face hidden by the dull hockey mask.

Stiles stared him down.

Jason lunged forward.

Stiles swung the bat, smacking the side of the man’s face.

Jason stumbled slightly by quickly recovered. He countered Stiles’ attack, swinging his axe in a flurry of savage movements.

Stiles leapt backwards, trying to avoid the blood-stained axe blade that tore at the front of his shirt. He swung again, the baseball bat striking the man’s arms.

Jason growled and dropped his axe.

Stiles took advantage of the moment.

He stepped forward and swung the bat.

It hit Jason over the head; shattering like glass.

Stiles watched, stunned, as shards of oak rained over him like slivers of ice in a snowstorm.

He looked down at the stump of a broken bat in his hand, his wide eyes slowly looking up at Jason.

The man met his gaze with an enraged glare.

Stiles swallowed hard.

Stiles threw the stump of the baseball bat at him.

Jason was unaffected.

He reached forward and grabbed Stiles by the throat.

Stiles reached into his pocket, grabbing for the pocket knife.

He flicked out the blade and slammed it into the man’s throat.

Blood spilled over his hand as he pushed the sole of his shoe against Jason’s chest and kicked away from the man.

He landed on his feet and ran for the trees, waiting until he had put some distance between them before turning to look at the man.

Jason stood, frozen, behind him, stunned and confused as he slowly reached up for the knife and pulled it from his throat. He looked at the blade, a glimmer of confusion passing across his eyes.

He lifted his gaze to meet Stiles’.

Blood ran from the wound in his throat, seeping into the grey fabric of his shirt and the thick denim of his overalls, but he showed no sign of weakening.

“What the fuck?” Stiles muttered.

Jason lunged forward, chasing after Stiles.

Stiles leapt up into a nearby tree, scurrying up the rough bark and reaching for the thick bough of a high branch.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Jason grabbed his ankles, pulling the teen down from the tree.

Stiles yelped, thrashing about and kicking at Jason’ hand but the man refused to weaken his grip. Stiles’ hands began to slip.

Jason pulled hard and Stiles lost his grasp on the branch.

He fell, hitting the ground with a painful crack as agony flooded his body.

Jason loomed over him, his thick fingers tightening around the handle of his axe.

Stiles swallowed hard, paralysed with fear. He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his arms to shield his face.

There was a rush of air and a blur of shadows passing over him as something pounced on Jason, knocking him aside.

“Stiles?”

The gruff voice stirred the boy.

Stiles blinked open his eyes, clearly disorientated and confused.

Derek gently pulled the teen’s arms away from his face.

“Stiles, you have to get up,” Derek urged, a hint of panic in his voice.

Stiles didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were focused on the hulking figure that was rising to his feet.

“Stiles, you have to run,” Derek said firmly, his husky voice finally reaching the teen and spurring him into action. “Get up and run.”

Stiles scrambled to his feet, his eyes focused on the approaching figure.

He opened his mouth to warn Derek, but his voice caught in his throat.

Jason swung his arm into Derek’s face.

Derek was hurled aside. He grunted as he hit the thick trunk of a tree, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl as he met the masked man’s glare with eyes that burnt with rage.

Stiles looked around; looking for anything he could use to fight. His eyes fell upon a glint of silvery metal beneath the dull light of the street lamp. He ran towards it.

Behind him, Derek slashed at Jason with talon-like claws.

Jason grabbed him by his throat and hoisted him off his feet. He slammed Derek down on the ground, leaving him gasping breathlessly and thrashing about in an attempt to break free.

Derek stared up at the man, his attacks weakening as his body began to tense with pain. His lungs burnt like wildfire and his eyes filled with tears, his vision streaked with smeared colours as he stared up at the man.

Bursts of light filled his vision as he began to weaken, his arms falling to his sides as Jason’s grip refused to weaken.

Derek’s eyes began to fall shut.

Beyond the thundering pulse in his ears, he heard a vicious shout.

Jason was hurled aside.

Air slammed back into his lungs.

He couched and spluttered, his stomach heaving as he gasped for air.

He looked up, his eyes wide as they focused on Stiles; the young man’s glare unwavering as it focused on Jason, a fire axe clutched in his hands as his shoulders heaved with heavy breaths.

Derek’s jaw fell slack as he stared at Stiles.

Jason slowly recovered, straightening his back and turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles lunged forward and swung the axe again, wedging the blade in the man’s ribs and knocking him to the ground.

He pulled the axe back and hurried over to Derek’s side.

“Come on,” he said, helping Derek to his feet. “We’ve got to go.”

Derek nodded, still stunned by Stiles’ sudden change of character. He shook himself from his trance as the two of them turned and ran into the shadows of the trees.


	7. Derek

Derek sprinted up the stairs, his feet thumping against the wooden boards that stretched along the front of the house. He shoved open the cabin door and rushed inside.

He held the door open for Stiles and slammed it shut behind them, pulling the barricading bar down and securing the cabin.

He took a step back, steadying his breathing as he turned to look at Stiles.

The teen stood in the middle of the room, his shoulders rising and falling as he heaved in deep breaths. HIs hands were trembling, his grip on the handle of the axe weakening.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly.

Derek winced, the bitter metallic stench of blood reaching his nose. He looked down at ribbons of crimson that streamed across his hand, dripping down the handle of the axe.

“You’re hurt,” Derek pointed out.

“Huh?” Stiles blinked, stunned. He looked down at his hand, dropping the axe as he stared at his bloodied hand. Splinters of wood jutted out of his pale flesh. “It must have happened when the bat broke…”

Derek reached forward, steadying his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and guiding him towards the nearby couch. He helped Stiles sit down on the ratty old cushions before rushing into the kitchen to grab a first aid kit.

He returned with a small metal box full of medical supplies and a bottle of water.

He unscrewed the lid and poured the water over his hand, washing away the blood before carefully puling out the splinters of wood with tweezers.

Stiles reached for one of the bandages, fumbling with it as he tried to wrap around his hand. The blood seeped into the fabric, leaving the cotton slick as he tried to wrap it around the palm of his hand.

“Here,” Derek whispered. “Let me.”

He cautiously reached forward and took hold of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles relinquished his hold on the bandage. He watched as Derek’s surprisingly tender hands carefully wrapped the cloth around his hand, coiling it around his palm before tying off the bandage.

Derek turned to move away.

“Don’t stop,” Stiles whispered before he could stop himself.

Derek froze, his eyes darting up to look at Stiles.

Stiles kept his eyes focused on Derek’s hands, the whiskey-coloured depths swirling as he stared down at the bandages.

Stiles slowly lifted his gaze to meet Derek’s eyes. He felt his heart skip a beat as he realised just how close they were. He was so close that he could see the details of Derek’s glittering aventurine eyes and how the onyx depths of his pupils consumed his clear glistening irises.

Stiles leant forward and brought their lips together.

He let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped. His eyes fluttered shut again as he leant in closer and deepened the kiss.

After a moment, he pulled back, biting into his lip and bowing his head.

“Sorry,” Stiles muttered. “We’re probably going to die here and I just wanted to do that at least once in my life.”

“Kiss a guy?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head slightly and muttered, “Kiss you.”

A soft rosy blush coloured Derek’s cheeks as he bowed his head slightly to hide his bashful smile. He looked up at Stiles through his eyelashes.

The teen’s mole-speckled cheeks were bright red and Derek could hear Stiles’ heart racing.

After a moment, Derek found his voice.

“Do you want to do it twice?” he muttered.

Stiles’ eyes darted up to meet his, a glimmer of shock passing across his face.

Derek knew he was thinking this over, trying to determine whether it was an honest proposal or some kind of joke. Derek met his gaze, his aventurine eyes glimmering with adoration as he looked at Stiles; serious.

Stiles let out a small sigh and smiled. “Yeah, I do.”

Derek smiled softly as he cupped Stiles’ cheek and leant in close.

“Stiles,” A voice interrupted. “Stiles, are you there?”

Derek let out an exaggerated sigh and sat back.

Stiles looked up at him apologetically as he reached for the walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt and pressed down the button to reply. “Yeah, Allison, I’m here. What’s up?”

“We got the locket open,” Allison explained. “And it’s… Honestly, it’s really creeping me out.”

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“It’s a photo,” Allison answered. “It’s a photo of Jason and his mother. And his mother…”

She was quiet.

Stiles felt his heartbeat quicken, his breath still in his lings as he waited for an answer.

“Allison?” Stiles prompted.

“His mother looks _exactly_ like Cora,” Allison finished.

“That’s why he listened to me,” Cora chimed in. “He stopped when I told him to because he thinks I’m his mother. That’s why he dressed me up in the cardigan and gave me the locket; he thinks I’m his mother.”

“That’s not all,” Allison continued. “We’ve got a plan.”

Stiles glanced up at Derek. They were both listening intently.

“If this guy is who you say he is…”

“Wait, who is he?” Derek interrupted.

“Jason Voorhees; the kid who supposedly drowned in the lake years ago,” Stiles explained. “His mother went berserk, refusing to believe that his son could die and then attacked the camp counsellors who had neglected their duty of care. But the counsellors fought back and killed her. When police arrived, they couldn’t find the mother’s body, and when they searched the lake, they couldn’t find Jason’s body either. It became a local legend that they were still alive, and it turns out that’s kind of true. Jason’s alive and he seems to hunt down people that remind him of the counsellors who killed his mum.”

“How did he not die?” Derek asked.

“Maybe his mum was a necromancer or something,” Lydia offered. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is the kid is alive and hunting us down and we might have a chance to take him down.”

“He’ll listen to Cora,” Allison explained. “She might be able to stop him long enough for use to make out move.”

“We can’t outrun him,” Stiles objected.

“No,” Allison agreed. “But we might be able to get close enough to take him out.”

“No,” Derek growled. “I am not letting you put my sister in danger.”

“Derek, this is my idea,” Cora said, her voice strangely soft as she spoke to her brother. “I can handle myself.”  
“Cora…” Derek started slowly.

“Derek,” Cora said a little sharply. “If this is our only chance to get out of here, then I’m willing to risk it.”

“Cora, please,” Derek said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “I can’t lose you… Not again.”

There was a moment of silence.

Derek felt his chest ache, his eyes welling with tears.

The radio crackled and, after a while, he heard Cora’s voice.

“Derek, I know you’re scared, but—as strange as it sounds—I’m in the safest place I can be,” Cora said softly. “If Jason think’s I’m his mother then he won’t hurt me.”

Derek let out a heavy sigh.

“I know you’re worried,” Cora said quietly. “And I love you too, but this may be the only chance we have.”

“And how do you suppose we kill him?” Stiles asked.

“Shoot him in the head, decapitate him, slice his face in two,” Lydia offered. “I don’t think _anyone_ can survive that.”

“We can’t do that until the mask is off of him,” Stiles pointed out.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” came another familiar voice: Scott. “Jason’s at Springwater Camp with us.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

“Isaac and I are doing our best to fight him off and we might be able to get his mask off, but we could use a little help,” Scott answered honestly.

Derek took a hold of the walkie-talkie. He rose to his feet and stalked towards the door.

“We’re on our way.”


	8. Scott

Scott hit the ground with a painful thud, rolling aside as the gleaming blade of an axe slammed down where he had been. He pounced to his feet and lunged at the man, scratching at him with jagged claws and dodging Jason’s attacks.

Isaac leapt into the fight, swinging around and slamming the heel of his boot into Jason’s face, stunning the man for a moment.

“We have to get the mask off,” Scott explained.

“On it,” Isaac muttered, his eyes glowing gold as he charged forward again. He lunged at the man, scratching, clawing and punching the man; keeping Jason off balance and unable to fight back.

The man swung his arms about, grabbing for Isaac and Scott.

The teens dodged away from his grasp, but Jason moved quickly.

His hand slammed into Isaac’s throat, hoisting the teen off his feet.

Isaac flailed around, scratching at his arm and kicking at his gut.

His lungs ached breathlessly, his throat restricting as Jason tightened his grip.

The air was split by a sharp whistle, silenced as the arrow buried itself in Jason’s chest and knocked him to the ground.

Isaac slammed his boot into the man’s chest and kicked away, backflipping gracefully and landing on his feet. He stepped forward and crouched by Jason’s side. His fingers grabbed he edge of the off-white hockey mask, his claws slicing through the cord that kept it in place. He pulled the mask from the man’s face.

Jason’s pale eyes glared at him, his body stunned.

“I guess this is when I say something witty,” Isaac said, looking at the old hockey mask in his hand.

He turned his gaze back to the man’s disfigured face, his skin bulging as if boiling from his bones, the blotchy flesh discoloured and scarred.

Isaac smirked, his lips curling up in a slight snarl as he added, “I’m not witty.”

Jason glared at him, not saying a word as he reached for his chest, grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pulled it from his flesh as if it were nothing. He rose to his feet, his glare trained on Isaac.

The teen took a step back, tossing the hockey mask aside and bracing himself—claws extended and fangs bared; ready for a fight.

Jason thrashed about, swinging his axe at Isaac and grabbing at him. The blade of his axe caught Isaac’s side, tearing through the fabric of his shirt and spilling blood down his side.

Isaac stumbled and collapsed to the ground.

“Isaac!” Scott shouted, kicking up his heels and running over to the teen’s side.

Jason spun around, backhanding Scott across the space.

He let out a grunt of pain as his body slammed into the solid trunk of a tree. He collapsed to the ground, his head ringing and his vision blurred as he saw Jason turn back to Isaac.

Scott glanced across the space and towards the tree line, seeing Allison notch another arrow and pull the string taut.

She let the arrow fly.

It whistled as it soared through the air and stuck into Jason’s shoulder.

Nearby, two figures broke through the bush: Stiles and Derek.

The small group ran across to their side.

Allison and Lydia sprinted across the way, trying to help Isaac to his feet and drag him towards the shelter of the tree line. Stiles, Derek and Cora ran over to Scott’s side, helping him sit back against the tree.

Scott gently shrugged them off. “I’m okay, just hit my head a little hard.”

Stiles glanced up at Derek, locking eyes with the man as he said, “If we’re going to end this, we need to do it now.”

Derek nodded.

“Cora will pacify him, if you can get him on his knees I can take him out,” Stiles said as he rose to his feet, glancing down at the axe in his hand.

Derek nodded curtly again.

Derek kicked up his heels and ran into the clearing. He lunged at Jason, leaping into the fight with claws at the ready.

Stiles turned to look at Cora, his eyes swirling with a glimmer of worry as he asked, “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

He set his hand between her shoulder blades and guided her out of the shelter of the shadows.

Cora stepped into the clearing.

Jason swung his axe at Derek.

Derek dodged his attacks, ducking aside and moving with agile grace.

But his foot struck a root.

Derek stumbled and fell.

Jason turned on him, hoisting his axe high above his head and aiming for Derek.

“Jason,” Cora called across the space.

The man spun around, his eyes focused on her.

“Jason,” Cora said again, her voice firm and commanding like a mother scolding her child. “Put the weapon down.”

Stiles began to circle the man, placing his feet carefully on the ground as he made his way around the space until he was standing off to Jason’s side.

The man listened to her, lowering his arms and weakening his grip on the axe until it fell to the ground.

“It’s over now,” Cora said softly. “It’s okay.”

Isaac swung his legs around, knocking Jason’s feet from beneath him.

The man collapsed to his knees, hitting the ground with a heavy thud, but his eyes were fixed on Cora.

Cora’s voice was firm as she said, “It’s over.”

Stiles lunged forward and swung the axe, the blade slicing into Jason’s head with a gut-wrenching sound.

The man let out a gargled breath, his eyes wide with shock as he stared at Cora.

Stiles wretched the axe from the man’s throat, staggering back slightly. He tightened his grip on the axe, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward and hurled the axe at the man.

The blade slammed into Jason’s skull, splitting the flesh in half.

Stiles straightened his back, putting himself between Jason and Cora as the man’s eyes began to mist over and his body weakened, collapsing to the ground.

“Now,” Stiles said, heaving in deep breaths as his shoulders rose and fell, “it’s over.”


	9. Epilogue

Stiles staggered back from the man’s body, a strange sense of relief washing over him as he stared at Jason’s unmoving body.

“So, uh…” Lydia swallowed hard against the rising bile in her throat as she looked down at Jason. “How are we going to explain this?”

“My dad’s the Sheriff,” Stiles muttered, his eyes glued on the corpse. “He’ll find a way to write this up in the reports that doesn’t sound like we’re all insane.”

His body was shaking. He balled his hands into fists and unfurled them again, trying to stop them from trembling.

Beside him, he noticed Derek helping Cora take the old, ratty cardigan off and ball his little sister up into his arms, holding her close and whispering softly to her.

“Stiles?” Scott said softly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles lied. He paused for a moment, forcing himself to drag his eyes away from Jason’s corpse. “I’ll call my dad.”

He dragged his feet across the space, his legs like lead as he staggered towards the nearby cabin. He crawled up the stairs and into the large room. He stumbled over to the phone and dialled the familiar number.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered.

Stiles felt his blood run cold.

He had thought he’d never hear his dad’s voice again.

“Hello?” the man repeated.

Stiles swallowed hard against the ball in his throat, heavy tears welling in his eyes. His hands were shaking and his voice was weak as he rasped, “Dad…”

“Stiles?” the Sheriff called. “Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles slumped back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and bit into the back of his hand to stop himself from crying.

“Stiles?” He could hear the fear in his father’s voice. “Has something happened? Are you okay?”

Stiles swallowed hard, struggling to fight back his tears as he began to explain the situation: a man attacked them at the camping grounds, they’re okay but they had to fight off the man in self-defence.

“Stiles, are _you_ okay?” his father asked, his voice still full of fear.

“I’m okay,” he assured him. “I’m just in shock.”

“Okay, just breathe deeply and stay calm. Make sure no-one touches anything and I’m on my way out there now, okay?” his father said softly. “I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“Okay,” Stiles muttered. “And, dad?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I love you.”

He could hear his dad smile as he said, “I love you too, Stiles.”

His father hung up and Stiles wiped the trailing tears off his cheeks. He glanced up to see a figure standing in the doorway.

Derek crossed the room and sat down next to him. He let out a heavy sigh and rested his head back against the wooden boards of the wall.

“So…” Derek started slowly. “About that kiss…”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat. He swallowed hard.

“It was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing,” he lied. “I mean, it’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, but I understand if you want to forget about it completely.”

Derek turned to look at him.

“I don’t want to forget about it,” Derek admitted.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile. “Me neither.”

Derek reached out and took Stiles’ hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. A soft smile played across his lips as he leant in closer, brushing his lips across Stiles’ in a gentle kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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